


It Would Cause a Scandal

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Accidental Cuddling, Alcohol, Bickering, Boys Being Boys, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Houdini is a Little Shit, Platonic Relationships, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7186871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Houdini is a subconscious cuddler, even if no one will convince him of that. He'll say that <i>Doyle's </i>the cuddler, and he only does it to try and push him out of the bed.</p><p> </p><p>OR:</p><p>Five Times Houdini and Doyle Slept Together and One Time that They Did Even When They Didn't Have To</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Would Cause a Scandal

**Author's Note:**

> I am _Houdini & Doyle _trash. I shouldn't love small shows so much because I always get hurt over them. (Well, like I said on Tumblr, I feel like the fandom is small, but maybe it's larger than I think?? I hope it is, for the show's sake. T_T)
> 
> Anyway, because I am a predictable old crone, I had to do this premise for these boys after the alien episode (a paradise for my "my fav trope is platonically sleeping together" omg). Tiny spoilers for that episode in **#1** here, but otherwise nada.
> 
> I do not own _Houdini & Doyle _. Thanks for reading~

**1.**

_But why aliens_ , Doyle thought, staring at the ceiling. Of all things that Houdini could theoretically believe in, and he had picked _aliens_. It was personal. Of course. That was the natural response. He and Constable Stratton had witnessed the way that Houdini had behaved; standing up for the "little guy" was evidently important to him, and insofar as an alien being something that had come from somewhere else, something that they did not know or understand; Doyle understood that. He might not have the best knowledge on prejudice and discrimination - thank you very much, Harry - but he got it. Oppression, and what Houdini's family had faced when they had arrived to the brand new world.

But oppression of humanity and oppression of something that _may_ exist, something that was not even human? Why, those were two drastically different things. Was it even oppression at that point?

For all of Houdini's skepticism, he seemed adamant on aliens being a possible and perhaps even likely explanation for all of this.

Doyle did not believe it for a second.

"For God's sake, man!" Doyle flinched as Houdini rolled over, fixing him with an annoyed stare. "If you're going to lay there so deep in thought, can't you do it somewhere else?"

Doyle turned his head. "I'm sorry, am I _thinking too loudly_ for you?"

"Now that you mention it, yes."

Harry shoved his hand into the pillow, apparently trying to force the life back into it, and resettled his head. If he didn't look so tired, Doyle might have pushed further, pestered him about the clear logic that would be behind this case if only he could figure it out. But, as it were, Harry did look tired, ruffled up and weary, and that wasn't even including the shiner from earlier. He always had an obnoxious sort of buoyant energy, but his face a few inches away from Doyle's, and it was gone.

He would leave him alone.

"Just go to sleep," he said firmly.

"Well, I wasn't planning on staying awake with _you_ all night." Harry shifted, the pull of his silk pyjamas sliding against the blanket. He pulled it closer, and cold air assailed Doyle's toes.

Doyle huffed softly and tugged the blanket over. "Don't steal the blankets."

"Don't hog them, then."

No, he couldn't do this. He definitely needed to smoke.

Harry raised his head as Doyle pushed the blankets away entirely. "Where are you going?"

"I'm taking it outside, so not to disturb you," Doyle said, a touch sarcastic as he waved his pipe in the air.

"Oh." Houdini dropped back into the bedding. "Don't wake me when you come back."

"I shall endeavour to be quiet as possible," Doyle retorted, and let himself out of the room.

 

**2.**

"She wouldn't sleep with me again."

"Well, she has the right idea, then."

"Ha-ha, very funny. You- oh no, it keeps getting worse."

Doyle stubbornly went about buttoning the nightshirt. "Coming from someone who has silk pyjamas in every colour imaginable, I'd like to think _mine_ are considered normal."

"I'm going to buy you a hat," Harry said seriously, and stepped around him to the bed. "One that matches. That has a little tassel." He waved his fingers as if to demonstrate, and sprawled out on top of the sheets.

Doyle quirked an eyebrow. "Have you never heard of the concept called "modesty"?"

"Yes. I've found it doesn't get you very far." Houdini stretched, the volume of his yawn filling the quiet.

Doyle shook his head and walked to the other side of the bed, pushing the man's arm out of the way to get into bed. "I don't understand how this keeps happening."

"What? Us sharing?" Harry shrugged, fingers latching behind the top of the head. "Probably because we pick small towns with run-down inns that only have two rooms. Why don't these "supernatural" crimes happen in some large, ritzy place? Preferably with a sea-side view, or a nice restaurant."

"How disappointing that otherwordly crime doesn't take into consideration our feelings," Doyle remarked.

"Exactly." Bare toes wiggled and Houdini looked towards the door. "Do you think Adelaide believes me or you this time? She's not prone to idle fantasy as much as you are."

Idle fantasy? It was the perfect opportunity to point out that in terms of fantasy, the _illusionist_ had the upper hand. He decided not to. "And unlike _you_ , she's not so quick to dismiss the possibility that there may be something else out there," he said patiently, instead. Silence fell for a moment.

Doyle knew what was coming.

"I'll bet you a-"

"No."

"Come on, Doyle!"

"We are not betting on Constable Stratton's opinion on the case," Doyle replied, and rolled over, giving the man his back. Hopefully he would take it as a hint.

"Just because you turn over doesn't mean I'll stop talking."

So he could understand the hint, but not deem it worthy for grasping at. "Go to sleep," Doyle said, and reached for the lamp.

"I'm not tired."

"Then take a walk."

"It's too hot!"

"Well, I'm going to sleep," Doyle replied, with a sense of finality - or what he hoped was. His ‘paternal’ voice, the one he used with his children if they were being rowdy, didn't work on Houdini. Probably because Houdini was a grown man and knew when to stop, even if he didn't.

Houdini made a noise of discontent, but the conversation lapsed into silence once more.

 

Doyle must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew, dawn was breaking over the sleepy town, and Houdini was sprawled out next to him, his arm thrown over Doyle's chest. The silk sleep shirt had gone, and Doyle was sweltering in his flannel pyjamas from the press of Houdini's body and the sticky, summer heat.

 _Honestly_.

With half a mind to throw the man's arm off, he instead shimmied out from the man's grasp and got to his feet, leaving Houdini to swelter in the hot room alone.

 

**3.**

"You really need to get some rest, Constable. I'll fetch you if I need the help, but if you stay here like this, you're going to catch ill as well. Go rest." Doyle dried his hands on his shirt, and placed his hand on Adelaide's shoulder. He hoped to persuade the good constable to take to her room lest she catch what Houdini had contracted; she had been by Houdini's bedside for the past fifteen hours without batting an eyelash. If Houdini had been awake, he would have thrilled at the prospect. "I'll take good care of him, I swear."

Adelaide sighed. "Very well," she murmured, sweeping a piece of hair behind her ear. "Wake me if anything changes. I'm right next door if you need me."

"I will do. Get some rest."

Wandering in the cold and dark had done nothing for Houdini's immune system, and the rain that had set in half through the trek back was most likely the culprit. Doyle was only surprised that he hadn't gotten ill himself, but then, he did have a decent resistance.

The fever was the most fickle. It had been stubborn in hanging on for the past day, but only recently had it gotten to this point. Harry had been bedridden, but now was mostly unconscious, the illness ravaging his body as he slept uneasily.

There was little that Doyle could do from here. If he didn't improve by morning, he was going to have to take him to a doctor better equipped than he.

He smoothed the cold rag against Houdini's forehead, worrying gnawing at the back of his neck. Curls plastered to his head with sweat, body tense even in sleep, Harry looked as far from his usual as he could be. And Doyle had seen Harry through a few instances of illness; it seemed like each one would always top the last.

"... wha..."

Doyle's eyes flickered to Harry's. "Houdini. Hey there. You awake?"

Harry mumbled something that was lost in the throes of the fever, although his eyes blinked open slowly, languishingly, settling on the ceiling, the room, and Doyle.

"Are you with me?"

Harry mumbled an affirmative, blinking a few more times before turning his head. "What time..." His voice cracked and he winced.

Doyle reached for the pitcher of water. "It's Sunday. You've been asleep for the better part of a day. Quite the high fever you have there. Here, sit up a little. There you go."

Harry turned his head away after only a few drinks of the cool liquid. He was increasingly frustrating to treat when he was ill. This time was no exception. Doyle suspected that he was only half awake as it were, given the lack of complaint.

"How are you feeling?"

Harry grunted, sinking back into the pillows.

"Yes, I would imagine that about sums it up," Doyle muttered. "I'm going to see if I can fetch some weak tea since you won't drink this water. Stay put," he said sternly, with a little smile. As if Harry would be going anywhere.

Fingers clutched at his wrist when he turned away. Doyle glanced over his shoulder, and frowned at his patient. "Yes?"

"Don't leave," Harry cracked out, and if the words came out weak, broken, in that whisper, Doyle had a perfectly acceptable reason for pausing.

"I'm only going to get you tea."

He didn't seem to hear. "Stay? Please."

"Harry."

"Don't leave," Houdini continued, voice garbling into a mash of words as his eyelids fluttered. His grip did not lessen on Doyle's arm.

Doyle hesitated for another moment before letting out a breath, and returning to his seat next to the bed. "Okay. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. You can go back to sleep."

Harry did not respond, but his fingers clung tenuously onto Doyle's sleeve.

 

Harry woke up, groggy and slow, as too bright light beamed in through the windows. He was sweaty and tired and felt like he'd been drowned - and yes, he was intimately familiar with how it felt. Why was he drenched in sweat? What time was it? Where was-

Doyle was asleep with his head and arms pillowed on the mattress, mere inches away. Harry's hand was wedged under Doyle's and was- was he hanging onto Doyle's sleeve?

Harry jerked his hand back.

Doyle did not move, and Harry flexed his fingers before running them back through his hair. What... He swallowed, and cleared his throat, and reached over, shoving at Doyle's shoulder. "Hey!"

Now the doctor jolted awake. "I'm here- Harry. You're awake, old boy."

"I thought you were supposed to be taking care of me, not sleeping on the job!" Harry accused, and flexed his sweaty fingers on the blankets again.

 

**4.**

"It's not that cold." Harry shivered, the very tips of his curls trembling with the movement. Only for an instant, and it was enough. "Okay, maybe it's a little cold."

Doyle rolled his eyes. "No, it's positively balmy," he remarked, as his breath turned to a cloud of condensation.

"Nearly," Houdini said. The annoying thing was that Doyle couldn't decide if he was being flippant, or if he really did not feel the cold. Shivers notwithstanding, he could have trained himself to deal with it. Possibly? "Are we going to be stuck here all night or what?"

"How should I know? Why don't you formulate a way out? Pick a lock or something, you're good at that."

"You're the mind behind the most famous detective in London right now, why don't _you_ figure it out! Besides," Houdini said, fixing his jacket, "there isn't a lock to pick."

"Sherlock Holmes is nothing but a fiction, magazine fodder."

"But you came up with the inspiration for it somewhere, you have to know _something_."

"I'll remind you of that," Doyle said, "but you just said that there isn't a lock."

"Yeah."

"Well, what do you intend I do about it? Would you stop pacing? Sit down."

Houdini sighed, flopping down next to him. His legs stretched out and he clutched at his knees. Tapped his fingers against his leg, and then turned to look at Doyle. "Do you think they know where we're at?"

"They'll figure it out. _Hopefully_ before we freeze to death," he muttered.

"That's not very likely, though." Houdini paused, seeming to think about that. "It's not, is it?"

"We're sheltered, out of the elements." Doyle glanced around the room. "Some sort of heating would have been a nice addition, but, for the time, we're safe. Cold," he added, as if they didn't know, "but hypothermia won't set in as fast as it would if we were outside."

"Well, that's reassuring." Houdini looked around again, twisting one way and the other, and then looking towards the ceiling. "Huh."

Doyle tugged at his frock. "What?"

"There's really nothing here."

Doyle laughed humorlessly. "It's not a resort." Trust Harry Houdini to be bored in the midst of this... rescue gone wrong. A trap, really.

"Evidently not."

Houdini shivered again; he tried to play it off by shifting around, but no. Doyle had noticed. Not very cold, indeed... He was certain about the hypothermia - they had some time before it started to take effect - but it wasn't comfortable. Doyle didn't like the cold any more than the next person, and Harry was only wearing his usual suit and no coat.

"You'll retain body heat if you sit closer." Amazing. That sounded... horrendously pathetic. So long as it helped.

Houdini looked back around, again. Incapable of sitting still, he was. "What? No. I don't want to cuddle with _you_."

"Just get over here and be quiet. You don't even have a coat."

"You just said we weren't going to get hypothermia."

"Not _yet_ ," Doyle said patiently, and cleared the distance between them. "But we will stay warmer this way. The longer we stay warm, the less chance we fall asleep and not wake up."

Harry stopped squirming. The wheels were turning, and he slumped his shoulder against Doyle's a second later. "Staying awake sounds good. I've got a show this weekend. Might need to be alive for that."

Doyle rolled his eyes. Again.

 

By the time they were found, the cold was turning to warm, and that was not a good thing. Harry had dropped off, and Doyle stubbornly clung onto the last tendrils of his consciousness, arms drawn around Houdini's body as he tried to keep him warm enough.

He must have fallen asleep. He remembered seeing the coppers show up, saw that someone was tending to his friend where he could not. Now, he was tucked into his own bed, and there was a note on the bedside table.

_Harry is fine. He should say thank you, but he probably won't, so I will. Thank you. Feel better soon._

_A. Stratton_

 

**5.**

Adelaide sighed, striding down the corridor to their compartment. It was meant to have been a quick trip. And, as usual, with her rambunctious companions, it was not that simple. And so it had become a weekend trip, and Adelaide was more than ready to return home.

God bless Arthur Conan Doyle and Harry Houdini, but they were the two most irritating people she had the pleasure of knowing. Busybodies, even Doyle, try as he may to play innocent. They were the two best people that she could ask to work with, and she would not change their strange partnership for anything.

Maybe if they snooped around in her personal business less, she could spend less time dodging them or being angry at them, but that was on their conscience, not hers.

"I've talked to the women down the hall," she said, drawing the door, "and they said that they- oh."

And there were her aforementioned rambunctious companions, both fast asleep in the compartment with Harry's head resting on Doyle's shoulder.

"Oh, for goodness sake."

A weekend of mild exercise and the boys were fast asleep on the train back. If Adelaide remembered correctly, _she_ had been the one to get the pistol away from their suspect. (Not for lack of trying on the boy's behalf; they were outnumbered, and so Adelaide had stepped in.)

She had half a mind to slam the door.

But she too understood the world weary feeling that came after something particularly complex, if not the exhaustion. And train rides, it seemed, could put anyone to sleep. So, Adelaide did not slam the door, even if Harry in particular deserved it for his latest round of prodding.

Instead, she closed the door quietly and returned to her seat. Their conversation could wait until they arrived at the platform.

 

**\+ 1**

This was the lap of luxury.

Well, it wasn't, not truly. Harry had been in better, but between his performances and their cases, he had been in worse. So, this was the closest to the lap of luxury for them, for now.

Harry sighed at the cool press of the pillow against his neck, and folded his hands beneath his head. This was almost like home.

Save the knock on the door.

Harry turned his head. "Yeah?"

"It's just me."

Doyle. Harry's lips pulled towards a frown, and he launched off of the bed to pad across the room. "I swear, Doyle, if you're about to say there's a break in this case, you'll be sorely disappointed to find I'm not leaving this room until morning. I already have my pyjamas on." He opened the door a crack, bracing his hand against the doorframe. "What do you want?"

Doyle held up a bottle. "Drinks?"

"A social call. Isn't it a bit late for that?" But he relented, swinging the door open the rest of the way. "Shouldn't old men like you be asleep?"

"Ha. Did I mention you're hilarious?" Doyle set the bottle on the table and dropped into the chair, looking around the room. "Just as ridiculously posh as the room they gave me."

"Isn't it splendid?" Harry hooked two glasses from the countertop and took the seat opposite the doctor, holding his out. "Finally somewhere to stay that isn't full of leaky roofs and rats."

"It's too much," Doyle replied, plucking the glass from Harry's hand after he had filled it. "Thank you."

Harry scowled.

"I feel like we're going in for some lavish ceremony instead of this... vampire soiree."

"Preposterous." Harry poured himself his own drink, and set the bottle aside. "The vampire part. The lavish ceremony isn't too far from reality," he pointed out.

"Don't remind me."

"What? Not excited for a chance to be surrounded by the press of people who love you?" Harry asked, hiding his smile behind the glass.

"No, my ego isn't quite as big as yours, actually." Doyle sighed, leaning his elbows on the table. "And listen, this isn't just a party, you need to be-"

"On my best behaviour?" Harry interrupted. "When am I never?"

And, ah, there was that look that Doyle gave him when he was evidently being irritating. Harry thrilled in the look, because it meant he had gotten under his friend's skin. A favourite pasttime if he had any.

"That is not funny," Doyle said. So stern. The man had no sense on how to have fun. They would see with this party tomorrow.

"Yes, thank you, Father Doyle."

"I'm serious."

"I know. That's the problem! Drink." Harry flourished towards the glass and bottle and hummed around a mouthful of the bitter wine. "Remind me again how this exsanguination worked?"

Doyle shrugged. "I can only guess. Not by a vampire."

"You mean to say you don't believe in vampires, Doyle?" He was teasing him; the ever faithful Doyle, believing in the supernatural. The impossible. Harry knew how the ‘the impossible’ worked. He did it for every show.

"Not like fiction paints them."

"So you admit you believe that vampires _could_ be real?"

"I'm not saying there are beings who rely on draining blood for sustenance," Doyle said, "but there is medical-"

Harry held up a hand. "Forget I asked. This is actually horrible," he said, looking at the wine. "Where did you get it?"

Doyle paused, glass halfway to his lips. He lowered it slightly, and then spoke. "A woman."

"Oh!" Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Doyle."

"Don't be ridiculous. She was interested; I reminded her that I am married. That was the end of it."

"Ladies' man," Houdini remarked, while knowing that Doyle would never disrespect Louisa that way.

"You're one to talk."

"I beg your pardon!" he retorted. "I am not a ladies' man. I'm a performer. There's a difference. Besides. There's only one woman who has my eye." He muttered the last part, mostly to himself. Even though it was no secret, at all.

Doyle snorted softly, reaching for the bottle. "Yes. How is that going for you?"

 

Harry woke up with a horrible pounding in his head and a taste like old cotton on his tongue. He lifted his head from the table with a groan, swatting the bottle cork away. It had been pressed into his cheek and he rubbed groggily at the imprint.

The bed, mere feet away, sat untouched, pristine sheets awaiting him, and the sun shone brightly through the curtains.

Doyle was passed out at the table, too, head pillowed on his arms.

Harry stared at him, trying to blink away the swirling. He swore softly and pulled away from the tabletop. The empty wine bottle toppled over, crashing to the floor in a million pieces that stabbed into Harry's headache, and jerked Doyle awake from his slumber.

"Houdini-" Doyle shook his head. "Oh, damn."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the author across the table, and rubbed his head. "You can say that again."

"We..." Doyle fumbled for his pocketwatch and swore again. "We have two hours." He stood up and staggered into the table, and Houdini failed at not laughing. "Houdini!"

"Yes, the party." Harry waved his hand. "I'll be ready. I think."

"Oh, God." Doyle straightened up, turning for the door. "I need a drink."

"I think you accomplished that last night." Harry didn't dare stand up lest he collapse right back down again. He'd have his bearings in a minute. "We did. Thanks for that, by the way."

"Yes, yes, just get ready for the party!" It took Doyle two tries to get the doorknob, leaving Harry snickering until it made his head hurt too much.

Such the stuffy old friend, Doyle.

Houdini staggered to his feet. He had to find his suit for that party. Wherever... wherever he had left it. Oh! There it was.

Stumbling a step, pain shot through his bare feet, as the realisation of the broken glass on the floor came too late. Harry swore and watched the blood drip from the sole of his foot, barely registering the pain. There was a thud - most likely Doyle, in the next room over - but Harry flinched, reaching for the fork. It was the closest thing nearby looking like it was made of silver. The absurdity of the action came a half second too late; vampires weren't real.

　

......... Right?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm assuming the whole series is already out from ITV but I'm a FOX watcher so no spoilers please~ Thank you!


End file.
